


the most dangerous game

by AnnaofAza



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Additional warning will be added with updates, Bondage, Escape, M/M, Manhandling, Non-Sexual Bondage, Pre-Kerberos Mission, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27373354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: There are rumors and half-told stories spread among the ranks of the Garrison’s special tests.This scenario? Enemy capture, with a choice to escape or surrender... and it's Keith's turn.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 76





	the most dangerous game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TwilightinBetween](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwilightinBetween/gifts).



> Thank you to @BifrostRide for prompting me with this particular intriguing scenario! Hope I do this justice :) 
> 
> Please note that Keith's age is ambiguous here, since this takes place a while before Kerberos, so take care of yourselves and check the warnings.

Keith swallows the last chunk of his rubber-tough meatloaf, eyes narrowing suspiciously as he takes another look around the canteen. So far, everything seems normal: cadets jockeying for the last piece of dry vanilla cake, cliques positioned in their usual spots, and officers in council at their own table. As always, he sits alone, back to the wall, scarfing down food as fast as he can to retreat.

He’s been on edge all day, ever since Shiro cornered him in the hallway, voice low and teasing: “Your test is coming up soon.”

There are rumors and half-told stories spread among the ranks of the Garrison’s special tests. They were a military academy, of course—evidenced by the many sessions at the gun range, ceremonial drills, battle formations, pack marches, and survival classes—though Keith often wondered the point of all of these if they were mainly destined for a tin can in space. What were they expecting out there? Enemy astronauts?

Still, he looked at Shiro, mirth dancing in his eyes, and felt his muscles tensing, ready to fight or flee or collapse. “Yeah?”

Shiro came closer, so close that there was no more space between their bodies, that Keith could smell his aftershave.

“Yeah,” Shiro breathed in his ear, and pulled back with a wink, Keith mentally cursing the hot flush in his own cheeks.

Now, out of the corner of his eye, Keith sees a few officers circling the room, eyes intent, grateful for his usual safe position. Paranoia serves him well. He pushes aside his tray, slowly scooting towards the exit…

Keith has time to stand and throw his leg over the bench and begin to run, pleased to see James Griffin body-tackled to the floor, tray clattering to the floor, as well as other cadets already being dragged outside—more points to him.

He knows he’s fast—you get in the practice in years of foster homes and schoolyard bullies—so he manages to dash out the door before he hears the telltale sounds of boots thumping behind him.

It’s likely they have the override key to his door, so Keith races for the airfield; he knows Shiro’s key for his hoverbike and can lose them that way—

But just as his boots touch concrete, sun stinging his eyes, someone grabs onto the back of his jacket, yanking squarely, a gasp escaping Keith’s lips as Shiro yanks him flush against his chest and presses a cloth of something sharp-smelling against his nose. Keith tries to hold his breath the best he can, kicking and thrashing with all his might; _of course_ Shiro would be in sync with him, as he always is. Right now, it’s a detriment.

“You should have fainted by now,” Shiro murmurs.

“Maybe I’m stronger than you think,” Keith manages, trying not to notice how good the pressure of Shiro’s arm tightening ever so slightly around his chest feels. This close, he can feel every inch of Shiro through their uniforms, firm and muscled and forbidden—it’s this, not the drugs that are making him fuzzy.

He’s trying to remember what he’s learned from sparring with Shiro: his slightly weak left ankle, the strength of his legs, his tendency to evade, and gets a few decent kicks in before Shiro yanks his arms backwards, handcuffs activating with a sharp click. Keith digs his heels in, doing his best to make his abduction, as most things in his life, as difficult as possible.

“Need some help there, Shirogane?” someone asks, sounding amused and out of breath.

“No,” Shiro grunts, and for a split second, Keith’s tempted to fold, to not make Shiro a laughingstock, but knows Shiro won’t tolerate him giving up, making it easy for him, under any circumstances.

He clamps down hard on the calloused fingers pushing a gag into his mouth, Shiro letting out an exclamation of surprise, and dashes forward—only to be tackled, chin scraping hot asphalt and gravel, bodies pressing down on him so hard that he feels he might suffocate, restraining him so there’s not so much a wiggle.

Keith might have been able to take Shiro, but around four officers? That’s a bit beyond him. (He makes a note to do more group sparring after this.)

The drugs must finally, finally decide to do their job, as Keith slides into darkness.

* * *

When he comes to, his hands are already cuffed, but rope’s skillfully wound around his chest and arms and legs like a coiled snake, almost too tight in some places—probably some of his captors have a grudge against him, of course.

He’s in the back of a dark tan vehicle with tinted windows, with the other cadets passed out around him, bound and blindfolded, including someone Keith recognizes as having thrown up in the simulator a few times. Shiro’s leaning over him with a semi-apologetic smile, another length of rope in his hands.

“Sorry,” he says. “But I’m not underestimating you.”

Keith narrows his eyes, kicking his feet and nearly hitting his head on the floor, but Shiro’s deft and sure, knotting more around his ankles, then easily flips him over to check the handcuffs, gently running a fingertip around the metal edges, against the give to check for weaknesses. This is the most Shiro’s had his hands on him, and Keith can’t deny—albeit with an almost guilty tightening in his belly—that he wants more.

Keith’s facedown now, sweat beading on his forehead, as Shiro reaches for another length of rope and connects his feet to his wrists, bending him into an arch. Keith squirms in indignation, cursing through the slightly askew gag, but Shiro’s grip is tight and true. His only pleasure at being beaten is that he was the last cadet to get taken down—chew on _that,_ Iverson.

“Don’t struggle,” Shiro says, as he gently rolls Keith on his side, “you’ll bruise.”

The blindfold that slips over his head and presses lightly against his eyes is almost gentle, and a hand squeezes his shoulder before he hears footsteps and a slam of a door.

Keith almost wishes the drugs worked, because the van turns out to be sweltering and uncomfortably bumpy. No one thought to tie anyone down, so they’re rolling all over like marbles. His head’s already throbbing, chin stinging, limbs going frustratingly sleepy; he can feel the knots of the ropes through his clothes.

“Anyone awake?” he calls out, albeit muffled and slightly incomprehensible.

No response.

Well, he tried.

* * *

When Keith wakes up, throat dry and head slightly spinning, he’s alone.

It’s a small room, tinier than his quarters, with a sleeping roll and a tiny metal toilet and sink. The lights are out, leaving the space pitch-black, save for a tiny red blinking light, and Keith takes a deep breath, _patience yields focus._

The floor underneath him is cool but bumpy with pebbles. It wouldn’t surprise him that the Garrison has canyon hideouts, and gives him a hint of where he is. He can’t escape during the day, all with sweltering heat and no guide, so he has to try to hold out until darkness. The constellations his dad taught him would be useful.

But first—he’s still tied up.

Keith looks around the best he can; no mirror to break, no obvious sharp edges to take care of the ropes. All he recalls about escaping from restraints is to do something _while_ he’s being restrained—too late for that—and he needs to have his hands in front of him. His feet are no longer bound to his wrists, but the rope’s still wound around his side. The best he can do is sit up, limbs tingling.

Keith looks up at the corner of the wall and mutters, “Really?” at what he’s sure is a camera.

In response, a light clicks on, shining at the ground in front of him.

It’s a sentence, lit by a projector: _To end this, your word is CONNELL._

“Not likely,” he says.

Silence, then clicking and _You have 72 hours to escape to the Garrison or surrender._

“Fuck you.”

The light goes out. Keith sighs, and leans back, plotting his next move.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun trivia: Keith's safeword is the author (Richard Connell) of "The Most Dangerous Game." (Don't worry, this fic doesn't have murder.)


End file.
